


seeing without observing

by simplyclockwork



Series: Tumblr Inspired/Prompted Sherlock Fics - Part One [11]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Canon compliant up to after season 4, Irene Adler Ships Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Kinda fluff with a bit of angst, M/M, Mention of substance use, POV John Watson, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, Tumblr Prompt, bit of pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-04
Updated: 2019-11-04
Packaged: 2021-01-23 04:13:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,073
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21313987
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/simplyclockwork/pseuds/simplyclockwork
Summary: “I always thought it would be interesting to do a story set post season 4 where Sherlock is Irene’s best man because he was the witness at her wedding in the short story. With John all concerned about Sherlock’s “unrequited” love for her. And she hints the whole time that you know they love you right? And finally John snaps at her about making Sherlock go through all this when he is in love with her. And she looks at him like “are you kidding me? That was your wedding.”
Relationships: Irene Adler/Kate (Sherlock), Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: Tumblr Inspired/Prompted Sherlock Fics - Part One [11]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1528859
Comments: 24
Kudos: 190





	seeing without observing

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt fill for @johnlockedinwarstan on Tumblr

As time passed, and Mary’s death faded to a fixed historical point, shifting from a raw note of toxic loss to a reluctantly accepted fact, John found life settling into a strange semblance of ‘ordinary’ again. Or, as close to ordinary as one could get when one was best friends with the world’s only consulting detective, Sherlock Holmes. Alongside raising his daughter, working at the clinic, and generally moving on after losing his wife, John frequently worked cases with Sherlock, as much as his schedule allowed. Their friendship had returned and, while it was different from before—rougher around the edges—it was still a partnership they both placed an emphasis of importance on. Sherlock was Sherlock, he was John, and they continued in the ways they always had; detective and doctor-soldier, two against the world. 

Or so John perceived things. It wasn’t until a wedding invitation appeared in their lives—Irene Adler’s, of all people—that he began to understand that things were entirely, completely different. Only he had been the one to miss a critical understanding. 

On a Friday, Sherlock called him to 221B. Bringing Rosie, John had settled her in a portable playpen in the living room—far from the experiments spread across the kitchen table—and sank into what he still considered to be his chair in front of the fire. With a sigh, he stretched his sore back and looked to Sherlock, who hovered by the window with violin perched beneath his chin, ready but silent. 

“Sherlock?” John prompted, after letting a long moment of quiet stretch out between them. The man at the window sighed, placed the violin in its stand and hung the bow beside it. Turning, he looked at John. 

“We’ve received a letter.” He announced, picking something up from the top of the mantle. “An invitation to be specific.” 

“_We _received it?” John asked, reaching out to take the envelope offered by Sherlock. Their names were written on the front and, when John opened it, a heavy cardstock letter slid out. Assuming it was an invite to a case—albeit a rather fancy one—John flipped it over to read. His brows drew down into a confused frown. “A wedding invitation?” His eyes widened as he read on. “From—_Irene Adler?_” His tone of voice rose in surprise. Looking up at Sherlock, his mouth quirked. “Irene Adler invited you to her wedding?” 

Sherlock was looking at the mantle, smoothing his fingers along the edge. He did not look at John, but his face, reflected in the mirror above the fireplace, was blank and composed.

“Yes, John,” he replied, voice carefully calm. “I am to be her best man.” 

Surging to his feet, John’s hands lifted in surprise, hovered just near Sherlock’s shoulder, then dropped back to his side. “Ah.” He said, speaking slowly as he chose his words with care. “That’s—that’s good, then?” He paused, trying to gauge Sherlock’s feelings on the matter, but the detective’s face was stone-cold blank. “Right?” John added, narrowing his eyes.

Sherlock gave little away, standing in a calm, relaxed manner. He sighed and turned to John, a slight smile touching upon his lips. “Of course, John,” he replied. “It is excellent. I am glad she has decided to spend her life with someone of importance to her.” His lips quirked. “Seems she is giving up the dominatrix title to settle down with that red-haired woman we thought to be her assistant.”

John snorted, remembering their first encounter with the two women, that fateful day when an American agent had nearly blown his brains out. 

“Yeah, I haven’t forgotten.” He said. Shaking the memory away, he looked closely at Sherlock again. “You sure you’re okay?” 

Sherlock sank into his chair; folding his hands in his lap, he looked serenely up at John. “Yes, of course, I am fine, John. Why wouldn’t I be?” 

John shrugged, feeling a strange, flustered confusion in the face of Sherlock’s evident calm. “Well, you know, the texting…?” Sherlock’s eyebrows rose briefly, and he shrugged as well. 

“I never claimed that it was anything more than that, John. Yes, I said I sometimes texted her back, but it was always simple conversation, nothing more. A man can be lonely for things other than sexual attraction. Friendship can be hard to come by.” John winced at the almost imperceptible barb in his direction, but Sherlock continued as if nothing had occurred. “After all, as she told you herself, Irene Adler is not interested in men.” His lips quirked again. “They are… ‘not her area,’ as you know.” He smiled and looked at John, for all the world entirely unperturbed by the invite held in John’s hand. 

John shook his head, completely bemused. “But—you—she’s asked you to be her best man.” Sherlock nodded; hands still calmly folded in his lap. John ground his teeth but went on. “You were my best man.” Sherlock tilted his head. 

“Yes, indeed I was, John. Not sure what point you are trying to make—” John cut him off with a sharp laugh. 

“Before my wedding, you were a stressed out, anxious mess. You were folding napkins and texting panicked cries for help to Lestrade.” He fixed the detective with a hard look, but Sherlock was looking away now into the fire warming the hearth. John sighed and went on. “I’m just saying—you seem strangely calm right now, but I know it was a big stress for you.” He hesitated, then rushed to add: “I’m worried it might be too much, after…” He paused, thinking back to the Sherlock of just a few months ago, sweaty and pale and shaking with a vein-collapsing high. He shook the image from his head and continued. “I’m just worried it could lead to a relapse.” 

Sherlock looked up at this, his formerly unperturbed eyes sharp and flashing. “I am _fine, _John.” He replied, and there was a hard edge to his voice. 

“But when you were my best man—” John began, words earnest; face set in lines of concern. But Sherlock waved a hand, pushing the suggestion away. 

“That was different, John.” He stated, settling his hands back in his lap. John stared at him, caught off guard. 

“How—” he began, and Sherlock cut him off again. 

“It just was.” Looking at the fire once more, Sherlock spoke in a strange, soft voice, and John was taken aback by the flash of vulnerability in the other man’s face. He hesitated again, once more wondering if he should reach out. Instead, he settled back into his chair. 

“Okay,” he replied, dropping his eyes to the letter and reading the curly writing that flowed across. “Okay, Sherlock. If you’re sure.” 

Across from him, Sherlock nodded sharply. “I am.”

* * *

The wedding day dawned cold and bright, the rising sun gilding frost-covered windows with gold and fire. When John arrived at 221B to meet Sherlock—Rosie already dropped off with Molly for the day—the detective was already up, drinking from a chipped mug as he perused a wall of text on the screen of his laptop. Dressed in a well-tailored dark blue suit, a pale lavender tie at his throat, his hair was crisp and brushed into a semblance of formal style. Standing in the doorway in his own black suit and red tie, John was struck by an echo from the past in the form of a mental image from his own wedding: he and Sherlock posed together for photos in matching suits, flowers pinned to their chests.

He pushed the memory away, as well as the sharp pang that accompanied it, and stepped into the flat, clearing his throat to announce his presence. Sherlock, likely having heard him the minute he had stepped through the downstairs front door, looked up without surprise, offering a small smile in greeting. 

“Good morning, John.” He said easily, closing the laptop. Standing, he buttoned the front of his suit jacket. “The car should arrive soon. All set?” 

John nodded, absently looking around the flat. “Yep. Rosie is with Molly, and I haven’t forgotten my pants.” Sherlock snorted at the attempt for levity but did not reply. As he straightened his tie, looking out the window for the car, John cleared his throat, suddenly uncomfortable.

“Look, Sherlock,” he began, shifting his feet with unease. “You—you’re sure you’re all good with this?” When Sherlock turned to look at him, his face was stiff. 

“As discussed, John, I am not going to relapse simply because I am called upon to participate in a wedding.” His tone was cold and sharp, and John winced. Clearing his throat again, he fiddled with the cufflinks at the end of his sleeves. 

“No, I mean—I just mean, I know Irene is… I know she means something to you, and I just wanted to make sure you are okay since, you know, it’s her wedding…” 

Sherlock fixed him with a steady look. “I am fine, John.” He said, and the finality in his tone left little to no room for argument. John just sighed and nodded. Looking out the window again, Sherlock announced, “The car is here. Come, we don’t want to be late.” 

Nodding, John followed Sherlock to the stairs. As they descended the steps, he felt a heavy unease in his stomach. Watching the back of Sherlock’s head and his stiffly set shoulders, he hoped the detective was right.

* * *

The wedding was set in the countryside: a flower-festooned arch wrapped with trailing ivy and clematis, both light purple and vibrant magenta; a graceful white tent, beneath which sat tastefully lace-adorned tables and chairs; pale benches cut from birch set before the arch. 

John was struck by the soft, pastel essence of it all, something he had not expected from someone with edges as sharp as Irene Adler. 

Finding his seat, John settled in the third row on what he assumed to be Irene's side. Unbuttoning his suit jacket, he smoothed it against his chest and looked around. Some people mingled while others were seated, like him, talking to one another in excited, hushed voices. There weren’t many guests, which he wasn’t surprised about, but he was not familiar with any of them and felt uneasy about being the odd man out. Sherlock had already disappeared to gather with the rest of the wedding party. Biting his lip, John tried to relax. But unease roiled in his stomach, and he found himself unable to stop fidgeting as worry creased his brow. 

Despite Sherlock’s repeated insistence that he was fine, John was unconvinced. Perhaps Sherlock believed he _was _fine, but John felt there might be more to it, beneath the surface, than Sherlock was willing to admit to himself. John recalled how Sherlock had seemed to pine when he thought Irene dead and tried to make sense of that man with the calm, collected version he encountered today. 

He _knew_ Sherlock had feelings for this woman, dammit—why couldn’t Sherlock recognize that for himself? What if he was fine at the wedding, but the realization that Irene was truly lost to him—albeit in a very different way than believed before when she had faked her death—proved to be more than he could bear in the days after? What if he relapsed, and John couldn’t pull him back from the brink this time? 

On edge and fighting not to succumb to the memories the wedding threatened to drown him with, memories of his own wedding and the pain that still came with such thoughts, John shifted and fidgeted in his seat, biting at his bottom lip and picking at his fingernails. 

As people settled around him, gentle harp music floating over the venue from a woman positioned to the left of the arch, he took a deep breath and tried to swallow down the panic and foreboding he felt rising within his chest. 

The officiant took her place at the arch, and the harpist changed the tune to something mellowly joyful. Turning with everyone else, John watched as two women walked down the aisle, arm in arm, one in a dark blue dress, the other in a light, cream-coloured dress. They walked between the benches together, separating at the end to take their places on their respective sides. Another couple followed, separating as well at the arch. 

Irene’s bride stepped out next, gripping the arms of who John assumed to be her parents. They moved stately down the aisle as everyone stood to smile and beam at them. Her red hair was done up in an intricate braided knot atop her head, and her white dress cascaded into a dramatic ball gown waistline. When she finally stepped to her place beneath the arch, she traded bright smiles with those already in position. 

The music changed again, and John turned to watch as Sherlock and Irene stepped into the aisle between the benches. Irene, resplendent in a strapless, plunging white gown, long black hair curled and cascading down her back, had her arm hooked through Sherlock’s. One hand resting gently in the crook of his arm, she held a bouquet of lavender and baby’s breath in the other. Sherlock looked stoic, and at ease, a far cry from his stiff, panicked persona at John’s own wedding, and his full lips were curved into a pleased smile as he and Irene walked down the aisle. As they parted at the end, Sherlock leaned in to kiss her cheek, did the same with Irene’s wife-to-be, and moved to his space to Irene’s left. 

John’s hands clenched into tense fists, and he caught his breath as Sherlock looked at Irene, a faintly wistful expression on his face. When he turned his head, eyes searching until they found John, they shared a moment in which John was struck by the severe emotion caught in Sherlock’s gaze. He opened his mouth, at a loss as to what he might do, and, in his blinking confusion, Sherlock looked away, focusing back to the ceremony.

The ceremony was short and to the point; Irene and her bride exchanged loving but brief vows. As the rings were exchanged, and each was pronounced as married, John quivered in his seat. When the officiant declared that they might share their first kiss as a married couple, he tensed his fingers against the edge of the seat, his face pale.

Irene and her new wife kissed, the crowd clapped and cheered, and John looked desperately to Sherlock, who watched with a small smile before his eyes flicked to John’s. Again, there was an intensity to the look that John could not begin to decipher, and then the two brides were smiling, and everyone was hugging beneath the arch; the guests shouting and clapping as the two women joined hands and made their way down the aisle again, now as married women. John stood and applauded with the rest of the guests as the wedding party followed. He stared desperately at Sherlock, but the other man did not look over to him as he passed. And, like that, they were gone.

* * *

John waited anxiously while the wedding party was away for photos. He tried to enjoy the reception, and the decadent appetizers served, but he found himself too nervous to settle. He cradled a glass of wine in one hand and worried at his cufflinks with the other. He made small talk with several guests, but they mainly inquired how he knew the brides, exchanging small talk, and eventually drifting back to those they were familiar with. He nursed his wine until it was empty and gratefully accepted a second when offered by a floating waiter as he continued to wait.

When the wedding party finally returned, there was loud cheering and a surge of energy. Irene and her bride swept into the tent to great applause, heading to the head table for their seats. The rest of the party, Sherlock included, sat and were quickly met with well-wishers and congratulators.

John sipped grimly at his now third glass of red wine, ignoring the swimming of his head, and waited for an opportunity to approach the table. When he finally did, it was with Sherlock at the edge of his vision while he congratulated Irene and her wife—whose name was Kate, he remembered now—on their wedding.

Kate accepted his words with a gentle smile, shaking his hand before turning to greet another guest, but Irene seized John’s hand in hers, baring her teeth in a smile that reminded him more strongly of a great white shark than that of a blushing bride. 

“Doctor Watson,” she greeted him, shaking his hand harder than necessary. “_So_ nice of you to come. I wasn’t sure you would be able to make it.” Her eyes stared hard into his, and John shifted uncomfortably. He looked to Sherlock, but the detective appeared to be engaged in deep conversation with the maid of honour. He looked back to Irene and found she had not missed his lapse in attention.

“It was a lovely ceremony, Irene,” John replied, struggling to keep his voice carefully level. “Thank you for inviting me.” 

“But, of course, Doctor,” Irene said smoothly, still gripping his hand. “I did not think I would be able to entice Sherlock to attend as best man unless I also invited his, ah, _partner_.” 

Missing the underlying message in the way she stressed the word ‘partner,’ John’s wine-addled mind latched onto the concept of her ‘enticing’ Sherlock. Scowling, he leaned a little closer, speaking in a low voice with a fake smile so anyone observing them might think he merely wished her well. 

“I don’t know what you’re playing at,” he began, a rough note to his words. “But, to me, at least, it seems very unkind to ‘entice’ a man to your wedding that you know full well has feelings for you.” 

Irene’s eyebrows rose, a momentary look of surprise on her face, before her lips settled into a hard smile. 

“Ah, Doctor Watson, you do me an injustice.” Her voice shifted into a quiet timbre that matched his in its intensity. “After all—isn’t that what you did yourself with your wedding?” At John’s stunned look, she leaned closer, lips almost brushing his cheek as she spoke near his ear. “Perhaps, Doctor, you ought to first take a look at yourself before you begin to judge others.” Moving back, she abruptly dropped his hand, raising her voice to a normal level. “Thank you again for coming, Doctor Watson. If you’ll excuse me, there are some people I must speak to.” She stood and moved away, leaving him standing with wide eyes and a dumbfounded expression.

Gathering his shaken wits about him, John straightened, offering a strained smile when Kate asked him if he was okay. Evidently, having missed the exchange between him and Irene, she must have noted the way his face was deeply flushed—something he felt in the way his skin burned. Reassuring her that he was, he abruptly excused himself and looked around for Sherlock. His seat was empty and John, flustered, stared wildly around the tent, stepping away from the head table. Head swimming, he nearly jumped out of his skin when a large, familiar hand landed on his shoulder. Spinning, he found Sherlock behind him, concern across his face.

“John?” He asked, peering into the other man’s eyes. “Are you okay?” 

“Fine,” John muttered, shaking his head slightly, yet still feeling dazed. “Just—need some air.” He turned from Sherlock and made his way to the front of the tent. Walking into the open air, he moved several meters away from the tent, into the open grass. Finally stopping, he closed his eyes and sucked in cold air, feeling it only slightly clear his foggy head. Irene’s words echoed in his ears, and he felt a hard panic settle over him. 

What had she meant? That he had hurt Sherlock by asking him to be his best man? That inviting him to his wedding had been cruel? How could he _not_ have invited Sherlock? He was one of the most important people in his life. Sherlock was his best friend. 

John’s head swam, and he felt a wave of confusion and dizziness plunge over him. 

“John?” Sherlock close by with concern evident in his tone. John’s eyes flashed open, and he pulled in another long breath, this one shaky and uneven. Turning, he faced Sherlock; he found him looking at John with worry in his eyes and uncertainty on his brow. John stared at him, resplendent in a suit that brought out the hints of blue in his pale eyes. Struggling with the wine-induced fog in his head, John cleared his throat. 

“Sherlock.” He said, speaking slowly. “How are you doing?” 

Frowning, Sherlock stepped closer. “As I said before, John, I am fine, and that still stands. You, on the other hand, do not appear to be so.” He moved even nearer, placing a hand on John’s arm. “Did something happen?” 

John started at the touch, shaking his head. “No—no, I’m good. Just… too much wine. And something Irene said—” the last slipped out, unintended, and he clamped his mouth tightly shut. 

“Something Irene said?” Sherlock repeated, frowning again. “What did she say?” 

John shook his head, too forcefully. “Nothing, it’s nothing. Never mind.” He forced a strained smile onto his face, playing for relaxed. “All good.”

But Sherlock was looking at him with narrowed eyes, and John groaned inwardly as the detective studied him with that overly-analytical brain of his. John stared back, a sinking feeling of guilt pooling deep in his gut as he remembered Irene’s words: 

_“Perhaps, Doctor, you ought to first take a look at yourself before you begin to judge others.”_

Breath catching in his throat, John was struck with realization in the form of several flashes of insight: the way Sherlock had stood, casually relaxed, throughout the ceremony, comfortable and at ease, versus the way he stood now, anxious and uncertain. His hand, still resting on John’s arm, quivered ever so slightly. 

_Oh. Fuck._

Understanding hit John like a freight train, a completed picture falling into place. 

_Sherlock._

Sherlock—and he still couldn’t quite believe it, but the facts were there—wasn’t in love with _Irene_. Probably never had been. He had been causally comfortable throughout the ceremony, and John knew him well enough to recognize when such an expression was a façade. 

Sherlock was not heartsick with an unrequited infatuation for Irene. Whatever she had been to him, was to him, it had nothing to do with attraction beyond a friend or an equal match. 

John had made the mistake of judging Sherlock’s actions along the basis of ‘different’ from others. He had put him onto a pedestal that separated Sherlock from normal human emotion. But he was that a human, a man, and if John looked at him as such, Irene’s words echoing through his head, he realized what he had missed. 

The looks. The touches. Hesitations; gentle hands when Sherlock had taught him to dance for his wedding. The uncertain pain John had seen in Sherlock’s eyes when he told John and Mary there was a baby on the way; the gentle way he played with Rosie and let John catch up on sleep; the way he had looked John in the eye as he played a beautiful, self-composed melody for his and Mary’s first dance as husband and wife. Sherlock, leaving the wedding silently and without saying good-bye. Sherlock’s best man speech, unique and strange, but heart-achingly sweet. 

_“It’s always you, John Watson. You keep me right.”_

Sherlock, as he stood now, uncertain and expectant, hand trembling minutely upon John’s arm. 

By putting Sherlock on a pedestal, then placing him as the cause of Mary’s death, John had lost sight of something he had only wondered at before that fateful day on Bart’s roof: exactly what they were to one another and how they had always seemed inextricably connected; brought together; two halves once more made whole. 

He had not been able to address such thoughts, not then. Sherlock had ‘died,’ returning 2 years later to find John in a relationship, preparing to propose to Mary. Then the marriage, and Rosie; John’s anger and Mary’s untimely death. Their time at Sherinford and the mental anguish they both had struggled with in the aftermath. 

They had not had time to explore or recognize what they were to one another since, and John had still been reeling from the raw loss of his wife. They had simply fallen into a rough semblance of their old lives, the old camaraderie, this time struck raw and strange by the history between them.

John’s head swam, vision doubling, and he felt he might be sick. 

“John?” Sherlock called his name, bending to look into John’s eyes with evident concern. 

“Sherlock,” John gasped, the sheer confusion of the moment rendering him vulnerable and uncensored. “Are you in love with me?” 

Sherlock jolted, snatched back his hand and stared at John. His expression was both wounded and stunned, and his wide eyes flashed with reproach. 

“Excuse me—why are you asking me this, John?” Sherlock’s voice was rough and uneven; John noted a tic starting to jump along the edge of his jaw. 

John hesitated; he felt a sick jolt in his stomach because Sherlock glared at him with a harsh look of confused hurt. Licking his lips, striving for bravery, John stepped forward, into Sherlock’s personal space. The other man leaned back slightly, eyes narrowing, but did not move away. 

“Sherlock…” John’s voice dropped, and he glanced over the detective’s shoulder. People were mingling inside and in front of the tent, but no one was near enough to hear them; no one was even looking their way. Oh, but wait, that was not entirely true. John spotted Irene, standing just inside the tent. She appeared to be talking to someone, an older man in a burgundy suit, her face animated and gently smiling. But she was facing their way, and John could clearly feel the burn of her eyes upon him. 

He cleared his throat and looked back to Sherlock; they stood so close to one another that John had to tilt his head to see into the detective’s face. Sherlock stood like a statue, eyes fixed somewhere over John’s shoulder, jaw stiff and clearly clenched. 

“Sherlock—” he began again, and Sherlock’s chin jerked up, his eyes finally dropping to John’s face. They were dark, blazing; Sherlock’s lips were drawn into a hard line. 

“What, John?” He snapped; his voice was heavy with enmity. The force of his ire made John flinch, and he almost stepped back; almost dropped the subject and let it all go. However, if he was right, he knew this needed to happen—that there were things that needed to be said. So he stood his ground; went so far as to fumble for Sherlock’s hand, gripping harder than he needed. The other man twitched at the unexpected contact but didn’t pull away. 

“Answer me, Sherlock,” John said, and his voice was pitched low, fervent with the need to know. 

Sherlock remained silent, staring down at John. His eyes still burned, but the rage seemed to have dissipated. He looked both helpless and desperate, and John felt guilt ripple through him again. 

Sherlock didn’t need to speak because the answer was staring John in the face; had been evident for ages, right before and despite John’s ignorant eyes. 

“Bloody hell, Sherlock… why didn’t you ever say anything?” John demanded, and he could hear the sharp edge of reproach—and hurt—in his own voice. Even as he asked the question, he ground his teeth together; he knew the question was all but rhetorical because he knew the answer. 

Of course, Sherlock never said anything. Not to _‘I’m not gay’_ John Watson. Not to _‘we’re not actually a couple’_ John Watson. Not to _‘will you be the best man at my wedding, you great, pining, brilliant man, because I am an idiot and an awful friend’_ John Watson. 

And definitely not to _‘I’ll blame you for my wife’s death after she saves your life to make up for almost killing you before’ _John Watson, followed by _‘I’ll kick the shit out of you while you writhe helplessly on the floor, dying a slow death of drug overdose because I can’t face my own feelings,’_ John Watson. 

Covering his eyes, John sighed. 

“Because I am a bloody idiot, and how could you possibly tell me anything?” John muttered, shame and self-reproach forming into a hard, heavy ball within his chest. “In your immortal words, Sherlock, I see, but I do not observe.” 

He felt Sherlock’s hesitation, thick in the space between them before he felt his hand moving to rest on John’s shoulder. 

John paused, uncertainty weighing down his shoulders, then dropped his hand from over his eyes. He looked up at Sherlock; found him looking back with rapt eyes and slightly parted mouth. Without hesitating, John stretched to his tip-toes, raised his hands to Sherlock’s upper arms and closed the distance between them. With Irene Adler’s eyes burning into his skin, John pressed his lips to Sherlock’s, letting his eyes slide shut at the contact between them. 

Sherlock was still for a moment, hot breath against John’s face before his long arms enfolded John; he pulled him into his chest as he sank into the kiss. They stood like that, locked together in a moment all their own, as seconds spun out around them, ticking away unnoticed and unheeded. Sherlock’s lips were soft and warm against his own, and his arms were solid around John’s back. 

When at last they parted, John felt his face was flushed and hot, and he noted the pink hue high upon Sherlock’s cheekbones. They looked at one another in a moment of silence before Sherlock smiled, and John let out a surprised giggle. When Sherlock pulled him close again, John’s cheek pillowed into the other man’s bony shoulder. John caught Irene’s eye from where she stood, now alone, outside the tent. 

The look she aimed towards them, and the eye roll she sent his way, clearly meant _‘it’s about damn time, you idiots.’_ Sherlock’s curls tickled against the side of his face, and John couldn’t help but smile.


End file.
